Enora and Seger are angered by Mycroft's machinations. Detective Inspector Lestrade makes a new acquaintance.
Check chapters for specific trigger warnings.
As you will see, I have made Sherlock less acerbic than normal in this chapter. Unsurprising as he has had to survive, alone, on the streets. Normal service will be resumed later.
Trigger warning: homelessness, crime scene
Mycroft had felt a certain satisfaction when Mummy's call for help had drawn him to Sherlock's unconscious body, syringe and empty vial on the bed beside him. His foolish brother had played into his hands. He had finally left himself open to being persuaded to take Mycroft's offer of a research position at Baskerville.
Having confirmed his brother was in no immediate danger, Mycroft ushered Mummy downstairs whilst he "dealt" with the situation. He kept his parents distracted whilst Sherlock was carried, secured in a straightjacket and bound to a stretcher, to the waiting ambulance. He had told his parents Sherlock was being taken to hospital for treatment for his drug addiction, not to the private secure unit that Mycroft had arranged. Sherlock would either submit to Mycroft's wishes or find himself treated as a dangerously unstable patient. He would learn that Mycroft would not be denied.
The phone call nine days later informing him that Sherlock had absconded caused nothing but a momentary disquiet. He was confident that his brother would be picked up within the week, probably high on cocaine. He called his contact in the Metropolitan Police to have Sherlock's description discreetly circulated. The cover story was that he was an informant that the Intelligence Services needed to talk to; a valuable asset that needed to be collected from the streets in pristine condition. The last thing he wanted was his brother roughed up by an overzealous plod.
Mummy had been calling, wanting to know which hospital Sherlock was in so she could visit her wayward son. She needed to give him a sound telling off for frightening her like that and bringing that muck into her house. Mycroft had put her off for the first week saying it was part of the rehabilitation treatment protocol. After Sherlock ran, Mycroft spent the next fortnight using every trick he could think off to dissuade his parents. Unfortunately Mummy was indomitable. Once she set her mind to a course of action there was no stopping her. When it came to the protection of her children she was merciless.
Finally, Mycroft could procrastinate no longer. Daddy turned his back on his oldest son with a look of angry disappointment, leaving the room for a walk around the garden until his temper was under control. Mummy's eyes flashed angrily as she stormed across the drawing room. The slap across Mycroft's left cheek sounded like a gun shot, snapping his head to the right and causing him to bite his cheek.
"How dare you Mycroft. He is not your plaything. He is a grown man who is capable of making his own decisions, no matter how idiotic they may seem. This is your mess to undo. Find him. Now. You are not welcome in this house until you do." She turned, leaving the room, head held high, to seek comfort in the kitchen.
Mycroft had little doubt that, by this evening, his parent's pantry and freezer would be full of pies and pastries, baking being Mummy's relaxation in times of upset. Unusually Mycroft knew too well that none of them would be for him. He sat, rigid and stony faced as his driver negotiated the evening traffic back to London.
The journey gave him ample opportunity to explore his guilt. He had miscalculated. He had treated his younger brother as he would one of the operatives that he currently supervised. Ever since Sherlock's world had fallen apart when he was fifteen, Mycroft had taken it upon himself to mould the young man. Sherlock had, of course, fought Mycroft at every step, but Mycroft felt he was best placed to guide his wayward brother. They were similar after all. Linley was sociable and outgoing, but Sherlock had become even more surly and withdrawn. Mycroft passed on the relevant teachings from Sir Peregrine in the hope of making life easier for his brother to understand and control. Mycroft was a pragmatist, Sherlock was a scientist. The position at Baskerville seemed a natural fit and would place his brother in an environment that Mycroft could supervise. Mycroft was well aware of his own predisposition for OCD. He felt an overwhelming need to control any aspects of his life that did not conform to predictable behaviours. Despite both brothers having an almost pathalogical need to be in possession of all the facts, Sherlock hated to conform. He loathed regimentation and balked at authority. He was by nature an experimenter, fascinated by strange combinations and interactions, repeating and documenting until he understood in its entirety. Many saw the older Holmes boys as of similar temperament when, in fact, they were almost polar opposites in their outlooks. It resulted in a relationship between the siblings that was tempestuous at best. Both men were also highly motivated to win. Neither would back down. Throughout their lives, the one-up-man-ship had escalated many of their conflicts to explosive levels.
Mycroft's enquiries remained unsuccessful. By the second Christmas after Sherlock's disappearance, Mummy had relented.
"I have already lost one son. I will not lose another. Come to Christmas dinner Mycroft. Linley will be there. I want what remains of my family together for at least one meal this year."
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Seger had not forgiven his eldest son.
Despite his usual easy going nature, he found Mycroft's behaviour and failure to return Sherlock to his family were actions not easily forgiven. Sherlock had always had a certain fragility about him. He lacked Mycroft's ability to charm and Linley's gift to be everyone's friend. Sherlock craved companionship, but his intelligence, lack of social skills and forthright nature made it almost impossible for him to mix with the local children. In some ways, Sherlock's enforced isolation from other children was a blessing. He had always struggled with overstimulation. They'd quickly found that exposing him to large crowds or excessive noise caused the boy to throw what they thought were temper tantrums. Tucking him into bed with the curtains drawn and leaving him in silence for several hours seemed the only cure. When he went to school, his inability to tolerate idiocy caused friction with both his classmates and teachers. His teachers often sent reports of Sherlock missing lessons and being found either hiding in the silence of the library or carrying out strange experiments in an abandoned grounds-keeper's shed. His exemplary test results were the only reason he wasn't expelled.
Sherlock's only close companions growing up were his brother Linley, and red setter, Redbeard. His parents tried, but they struggled to understand their middle son. They encouraged Mycroft to assist, hoping he could provide insight to his younger sibling's mind. When Sherlock started talking excitedly about managing data and entering his mind palace they hoped that, finally, the tantrums would stop and Sherlock would find some peace. Unfortunately, the double tragedy of Grand-mère Véronique's death from a stroke, and Redbeard having to be put down after he limped into the garden, bleeding heavily from a gunshot wound to his flank, had hit Sherlock hard. The incompetent psychologist they had hired, at the recommendation of their GP, to help their son through his grief only exacerbated an already desperate situation. Sherlock announced that the man was incompetent. He refused to be treated by someone who abused his own sons. The disgraced doctor retorted by labelling Sherlock a sociopath as he was escorted from their home and told never to return. The diagnosis was false. Anyone who knew the boy knew his problem was that he felt everything, including emotions, too keenly. However, Sherlock took the diagnosis to heart, brandishing it like a sword at anyone who tried to get close. He seemed to enjoy the look of fear his proclamation of 'high-functioning sociopath' caused. When he went to America in his eighteenth year, his parents were naturally concerned. It was with some trepidation that they received the large package that arrived with explicit instructions that it be placed, untouched, in his bedroom. The man that returned to them in place of the boy who had left seemed fundamentally changed. Sherlock had let his hair grow into dark curls, he naturally pale skin was tanned, and he carried himself with a wiry strength. It was as if he had found himself. They hoped that he had become more socially competent. His years at Cambridge, whilst academically successful, revealed that it was unlikely Sherlock would ever be anything but alone.
Enora tried to convince Sherlock to return to Cambridge to carry out post-graduate research. Seger was happy to allow his son some space to decide how he wanted to proceed, however he became aware that Mycroft had concocted some plan for his brother's future. It was obvious that he was trying to manipulate his brother into agreeing. Seger wished now that he had stepped in to persuade Mycroft to back off. When Enora found Sherlock insensate on his bed, an empty vial and syringe discarded beside him, she was flushed with anger and then despair. Seger was in a meeting in London, but Mycroft had arrived a few hours before, planning to spend a long weekend with his parents after a hectic six months with barely a rest. She called for Mycroft to help with his incapacitated brother. Once Mycroft confessed that Sherlock had disappeared, Enora looked back on that Wednesday afternoon realising that her eldest had seemed unaccountably pleased at the situation.
Three weeks later Mycroft confessed all to his disbelieving parents. He had ordered Sherlock removed to a secure rehabilitation centre strapped into a straightjacket and treated as a violent patient. Their son had spent time in a padded cell and then strapped to a bed in restraints. Mycroft apologised for having tried to coerce his brother into agreeing to a position in a Government laboratory. He had misled the staff at the clinic as to Sherlock's true disposition. He had assumed that Sherlock was an addict and he would have time to finalise how to proceed while Sherlock detoxed. A report from the clinic had indicated that Sherlock claimed not to be addicted, apparently confirmed by his lack of withdrawal symptoms. A few days later Sherlock breached the facility's security and disappeared into the night.
Enora reacted in a way she would always regret. That one of her sons had bullied, and, yes she would say it, tortured his younger brother so that Mycroft could get his way was unacceptable. That a son of her's could behave in such a way to his sibling shamed and disgusted her. She could feel Seger's anger and was not surprised when he left the room rather than lash out at his son. She felt no such restraint, slapping him sharply round the face and banishing him from his family home.
The second Christmas after Sherlock's disappearance she relented, inviting Mycroft back into his home and family. Her eldest admitted having no success in tracking Sherlock down. There was a possibility that he was forever lost to his family. It was unthinkable, but becoming a real possibility. Her heart broke a little more each day. Her troubled son lost in the world. How could he survive? There were many nights when Enora lay in Seger's arms as they cried over the fate of their missing son.
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Sherlock had been technically homeless for over four years. In that time he'd become notorious amongst the homeless community, building a network of contacts and informants. None of them were friends, but many of them were trustworthy enough to watch his back or his belongings. He still found adults difficult, but his very specialised skill set helped a lot of people; shop-keepers, restauranteurs and street vendors. He solved problems and got them out of troublesome situations in exchange for food, services and the occasional warm place to sleep.
The street children were a different matter. There was something about the way children thought that appealed to Sherlock. They had endless inquisitiveness, and thought in such strangely obscure ways, their minds not discounting anything as impossible.
When the weather was inclement, Sherlock would give impromptu lessons to whichever children and teens were around. Raiding charity shops with his small amounts of spare change, Sherlock created a hidden library in the tunnels of reading and learning materials. One young lad called Billy was illiterate when Sherlock first ran into him not long after he'd decided to rebuild his life. Now Billy was hooked on mathematics and chemistry. Sherlock had found a couple of reasonable study guides in a charity shop, covered in the scribblings and annotations of the previous owner. Having deleted or corrected any notations that were incorrect, Sherlock handed the books to a beaming Billy who immediately disappeared into his nest of cardboard and blankets, unable to wait to dive into his latest prize.
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Recently promoted DI Gregory Lestrade had transferred in to the Murder Investigation Team eighteen months ago. He'd been in the Metropolitan Police Specialist Crime and Operations Section for the past decade as a DS first joining the Project Team investigating organised crime, then joining the Flying Squad investigating robberies, with a particular focus on armed robberies. When the chance to head his own Murder Investigation Team was mooted he jumped at the chance. He'd had to change Units and spend a further eighteen months as a DS under the supervision of DI Crawford, an old hand at investigating murder who brought him up to speed on the inner workings of MIT. Lestrade had a nose for crime. Crawford was impressed with how quickly the DS picked up on working practices and the nuances of a murder scene. He had no qualms about recommending the promotion to DI.
Now DI Lestrade stood, hands shoved in his trousers pockets, in a side road linking two busy streets in Hoxton. This not one of his preferred ways to spend a Saturday morning. His wife had been seriously annoyed that he'd been called in first thing in the morning on his supposed day off. Lestrade just figured it was a way to prove himself to his superiors, and if she had a problem with it, she could think about the fancy holidays and smarter clothes that his increased salary now paid for.
It was 10:15 in the morning and he was gasping for a coffee, but the crime scene needed him. The street itself was narrow despite being just wide enough for two way traffic. Either side were the sheer brick walls of the shops that lined the two main streets. The back alleys that ran off of this side street, giving access to the rear of the parades of shops, were both blocked by security gates. Shop owners couldn't be too careful, and the gates topped with barbed wire would deter all but the most determined thieves. Not that the shops were the type to attract armed robbers. Lestrade knew from long experience that takeaways, nail bars and the cheap domestic ephemera shops that served this community were of no interest to the class of criminal that he was used to. Only the gates, with their security lights, broke the monotony of brick. The road itself was not long, no more than fifty yards. It was painted with double yellow lines to deter parking, although that hadn't stopped someone from depositing a skip next to one of the gates. Apparently a shop was being refurbished, judging by the ancient shop fittings and detritus half filling the red metal obstruction. It was useful though, making an anchor for the crime scene tape that stretched across the road, creating an isolation zone around the body of a young woman lying on her back in the gutter.
"What's the story Anderson?"
"Female, early twenties. Her uniform is from the kebab shop round the corner." The Forensic Services tech nodded his head behind him towards the street the other side of the skip. "There's little blood despite severe blunt force to the back of her head. Her handbag is still on her shoulder, purse and phone are still inside and she's seems to be wearing her watch and jewellery."
"So not a mugging gone wrong."
"No Sir. No obvious signs of sexual assault either. I'd say she was murdered elsewhere and dumped here. Probably by someone taller than her, over six foot, judging by the angle of the head wound."
Lestrade turned sharply when a man's voice said "Idiot!" just behind his left shoulder. He'd been so fixated on the crime scene he hadn't registered the gate behind him opening, allowing the man in grubby jacket and jeans, dirty rucksack slung over one shoulder, to enter the alley, bypassing the Police cordon at either end of the street.
"What did you say? Do you know about this?"
The man quickly cast his eyes over the scene turning his head this way and that as he scanned the street.
"I know that's Tracy Alcott. Friendly girl. Worked for Tariq at 'Express Kebab', where I've just come from actually. Always willing to 'drop' a kebab on the floor so that one of the homeless can have it for free. She usually works the late shift on a Friday night. Finishes at 2am then Tariq closes up. Walks to her flat above 'Quickee Naylz'" He nodded his head in the direction of the other street. "Usually walks with Hassan, but he got called back to Turkey on Wednesday. His grandfather died. There's a big family funeral. Gathering of the clans I suppose you'd call it. Err, you there, in the blue jumpsuit. You need to move your foot very carefully. That piece of paper you are currently grinding into papier-mâché is actually evidence."
Anderson looked up sharply at the interloper, his eyes flashing with anger. "I don't take advice on how to do my job from some homeless addict."
The man smirked. "Well if that's how you do your job I'm not surprised you're so inept. There's cast off on the side of the red skip, just about level with your shoulder. Therefore she was killed here by a killer who was not six feet tall. There are cigarette butts by the gate I've just come through. There was a heavy shower at about eight last night. Given the air temperature evaporation would be complete leaving the tarmac dry by around 1am. The butts are dry, all three of them. Whoever killed her was waiting for her after the road had dried. You'll also notice that both the security lights above the gates are broken, apparently by vandals throwing rocks, but most likely by the killer to hide his presence. This alley would have been dark last night, but she'd have used it anyway as its familiar to her and any other route would have turned a five minute walk into twenty minutes. She left work as usual just after two, walking on her own without her usual escort. He used an iron bar, perhaps something he found in the skip, but more likely he came prepared so possibly an old crowbar. You can see by the rusty line across her chest that he struck there first. He probably broke a couple of her ribs. She doubled over as bone shards punctured her lungs. She was already bleeding out internally when he struck her in the back of the head. He rolled her over onto her back in the gutter so she couldn't be easily seen from the main roads and to make sure she was dead. The massive internal bleeding accounts for the lack of blood from the head wound. The killer knew she would be alone and took his chance. You might like to know that Hassan's very jealous boyfriend has had angry words with Tracy several times over her friendship with, in his words, 'his property'. Raoul Gomez is a five foot six inch body builder with a twenty a day habit and a very short temper. And I may live on the streets but I am not an addict."
Lestrade closed his mouth and broke the stare he'd been giving the dark haired man since he'd started speaking. He turned to the crime scene team and rapidly gave orders. "Secure the evidence by this gate and check for prints. Record the blood splatter and any other evidence on the skip. And Anderson, remove your clod-hoppers from that evidence and bag it before it's completely destroyed." He turned to see the man walking away, curls bouncing in the gently breeze. "Oi, you. No sneaking off. I need your name and a full statement. And don't think you're getting out of this alley." Raising his voice to attract the attention of the uniformed constable and sergeant securing the end of the street he called out "Foster, Donovan, matey boy here's staying put. If he tries to get past you cuff him and stick him in the car. Material witness."
The man's shoulders dropped with resignation, as he returned to the DI's side. "Now, would you take me through that again, just a little more slowly this time? By the way, I'm Detective Inspector Lestrade. Welcome to my crime scene. Can I take your name?"
"You can, but I'd prefer you kept it out of the official reports. I have a very annoying older brother who sticks his nose into everything. I've been avoiding his interference for four years. If you want my help, that's the deal. Put any name you like, just not Sherlock Holmes."
Lestrade wondered what kind of interfering older brother would drive an obviously intelligent and able man to resort to homelessness for four years. He could only assume someone powerful and controlling. Perhaps someone with dubious connections if taking himself off of the grid was the only way Sherlock could escape his older brother's unwanted attention. The question 'who the hell calls their kid Sherlock?' also flashed briefly though his mind before being ousted by more urgent matters.
"Agreed, Mr Peter Parker, which I believe to be an alias, but as the informant was not in possession of identification I was unable to confirm." Sherlock's mouth quirked into the barest semblance of a smile. "Now, take me through it again while I write this down."
plod = uniformed police officer, normally a PC (Police Constable)
skip = a type of dumpster. It's open topped with no wheels, a sort of giant bucket. It is transported on the back of a flat-bed lorry, then winched into position. Once it is full, the lorry returns and removes it.
clod-hoppers = slang for heavy boots
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In Old English Seger means the seawarrior (as used in part 1 of this series, 'Birth').
Enora is a Celtic name from Brittany - St. Enora was the wife of St. Efflam; both took vows of chastity after their marriage, yet remained together for the rest of their lives. (Thanks to amethyst-night's website for the information).